


I'm Not a Hero

by NewSpy



Series: How Carlos Mendez Joined Tony Stark's Mad Scientist Club [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: BAMF Carlos, Cecil is Inhuman, Crossover, Gen, M/M, MCU/Welcome to Night Vale Crossover, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Slow Burn, Team Bonding, Team as Family, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewSpy/pseuds/NewSpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos doesn't mind working for SHIELD. Sure, it can be hectic and stressful at times, but it's a challenge. Carlos enjoys challenges like dealing with the Director and Assistant Director and finding a way to join Stark's Mad Scientist Club. The point is, he likes most of the people he works with, he likes the work itself, he's never bored, and (quite possibly for the first time in his life) he finally has a good balance in his life. Then the Director sends him to every SHIELD agent's worst nightmare: Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Took the Red Pill

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who read the original version of this fic: I'm not dead and I'm finally re-writing this! Yay!!  
> For those of you who did not read the original version of this fic: Welcome to my crossover madness! This fic operates on the headcanon that "the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency" is in fact SHIELD; Carlos and his team are SHIELD scientists that were sent to investigate the 0-8-4 known as Night Vale.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos the (SHIELD) scientist ends up in Night Vale, and there's a red shirt v. minions debate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 edited 6-9-16.
> 
> Also, please tell me someone gets the reference in the chapter title.

“Agent Mendez.”

“Director Fury.”

“Do you know why you’re here Agent?”

Carlos hesitates, unable to shake the feeling that Fury's hiding a trick question somewhere in there. “I was under the impression you have a special assignment for me, sir.”

Fury considers him, eye sharp and eye patch imposing; Carlos looks at him evenly, face pressed into coolly polite interest despite his wariness.

“Have you ever heard of Night Vale?”

Carlos swallows nervously, an automatic reaction, though his eyes narrow in confusion. “Of course I have.” What agent hadn't? No one spends much time in SHIELD without hearing about the distinctly alarming stories regarding the infamous desert community. Hell, most SHIELD agents think Night Vale is a conspiracy perpetuated by Fury, Hill, Coulson, and various higher-up to threaten troublesome agents with. And, though no one actually admits to believing in Night Vale, the threat of being assigned to the town is enough to straighten up even the most rebellious of agents. “I've always assumed it’s just a horror story to scare probationary and delinquent agents. There’s no way Night Vale can be real.”

The sigh that escapes Fury did not serve to reassure him, nor did his next words: “If Night Vale didn’t exist, my life would be a hell of a lot easier Agent Mendez.”

Mendez’s stomach drops at the words. Ah hell, he isn't going to like this, is he? “What are you saying, Fury?”

“What I’m saying, Agent Mendez, is that you’re new assignment is finding everything you can about Night Vale

Mendez’s mind begins whirling, trying to find a way out of this because no, this is going to end absolutely terribly if even half the stories about Night Vale are true. “Sir, Bruce Banner and Tony Stark—“

“Aren't technically part of SHIELD,” Fury cuts him off ruthlessly, reminding Mendez of the oft forgotten fact. Before the agent can splutter out any more arguments that probably would be ignored regardless, Fury adds, “There's a reason we in management picked you, Mendez. You have the field experience, and your team speaks highly of you. You and your team leave at 0600 tomorrow. Dismissed, agent.”

Carlos blinks at that unexpected nugget of information (He and his team are close, yes, and work together well, but he didn't realize they'd spoken to the Director about him.) then leaves the room, already compiling a mental list of things he'd need to pack before he leaves for Night Vale. Night Vale, which is actually a real place and not just something to scare agents with. Great. Amazing.

Carlos can already feeling his hair turning grey from stress.

/=\=/=\

The drive down Route 800 was quiet. Agent Coulson drives, answering every question Carlos poses with his trademark professional aplomb, no matter how strange the question or answer. There really isn't a whole lot of information to share which sets Carlos on edge. How can he protect himself and his team without facts? Of course, that’s why Fury sent him to Night Vale: to gather facts because that’s what scientists did. And his team is comprised entirely of amazing scientists; Carlos is no slouch when it comes to his job either, and he even has at least a little respect from Stark, though he apparently isn't allowed to join the “Mad Scientist Club” yet. Maybe being in Night Vale would change that. Carlos decides to distract himself from the thought by gathering information.

“Why can’t we fly into Night Vale?”

“Night Vale citizens are aware of SHIELD, though they call us the ‘Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency’.” Ignoring Carlos' snicker of amusement, Coulson continues, “They’re smart enough to be suspicious of us, and we've determined it best for you to show no affiliation with SHIELD.”

Carlos privately applauds the intelligence of the Night Vale citizens, though he somehow feels Coulson won't appreciate the sentiment; he also feels Coulson won't appreciate him asking who “we” is. Probably him, Hill, Fury, and the rest of upper management. Instead he asks, “How well can we communicate with SHIELD once we’re in Night Vale?”

“Fairly well, though computers and writing utensils are banned.”

“I don’t think I’m going to ask.”

“Best not to.”

“What should we expect of governmental officials and law enforcement agents?”

“Night Vale has a mayor and City Council, though it seems to be more of a corrupt dictatorship supported by an organization called the ‘Sheriff's Secret Police’. Don't get involved in the politics.”

“What support will my team and I have from SHIELD?”

“We’ll be there for your first meeting, but, provided everything goes well, you will have minimal support except for a security detail.” Carlos opens his mouth to protest, concern for his and his team’s safety and sanity on the forefront of his mind, but Coulson cuts him off with a smooth gesture. “It’s the Director’s orders, not mine. We don’t want to draw attention to you for your own safety. The main form of communication throughout town is through a radio show hosted by a man named Cecil Palmer. By all accounts, he’s well known and well loved by the community, so I suggest making nice with him. As much as feasibly possible, avoid the mayor, stay away from the city council, and for God’s sake, don’t draw the attention of the Sheriff’s Secret Police”

“Just stay under the radar,” Carlos summarizes, slumping back into his seat.

“Essentially,” Coulson agrees. “It’s a small town, and you’re an outsider, so some attention’s expected. Just--”

“Keep it to a minimum, got it.”

Coulson allows himself a small grin that softens his serious face. “Hey, at least you’ll earn a place in Stark’s Mad Scientist Club.”

This startles a laugh out of Carlos who covers his mouth apologetically. “Yeah, because the Director really wants me, Stark, and Banner working together.” Before Coulson can school his expression into professional blankness, there is a moment of pure horror on his face.

Carlos could only laugh.

/=\=/=\

Once they arrive in town, Carlos and his team move their assorted gear into a rented lab space SHIELD procured for them (it's by a pizza parlor of all things, but whatever works he supposes). After all the boxes are unloaded, all their equipment finds a home, and everything is neatly labeled with brisk efficiency, Carlos takes a moment of both professional and personal pride. With a deep sigh, Carlos approaches C.C., the head of the small security detail assigned to the team in case things go sideways. "I need to speak to a City Council rep so I can introduce myself and the rest of the team." The whole "not supposed to wander off on my own" thing goes without saying.

C.C.'s expression hardens, understandably wary after hearing so many stories. “Are you sure that’s a good idea boss?”

Carlos nods, squaring his shoulders and setting his feet down firmly. He tends to use casual, open body language, but he's tall and solid and knows how to use that when it suits him. “I’m sure. As head of the team, I’ll act as the middleman between us and the Night Vale citizens. To that extent, it’s only--” he hesitates to use the word because he knows what's coming next but continues, “Logical that I introduce myself.”

The field agent scoffs with a hint of a smile. “Sure thing Commander Spock.”

Carlos relaxes his body language and makes a face before turning on a heel because that, that right there, is why he doesn't like using the word “logical” despite it being a good word. Be isn't Spock, he's far from it, as a matter of fact, despite the way his team might tease him. It's just that sentiment has no place in science. It clouds a person's judgement and makes them do stupid, stupid things. Part of what keeps groups like the Avengers so busy is cleaning up misguided experiments that started with mixing sentiment and science and ended with disaster. And villains. Lots of super-powered villains.

He’s almost at the door when his eye lands on a lab coat, innocuous and white and there; he's not sure how it got there or why he does it, but Mendez pauses for only a brief moment before grabbing it and slipping out the door into dry desert air.

“Know where we’re going sir?” C.C. asks. Dressed in comfortable jeans, a worn shirt, and old sneakers, the small handgun tucked into his waistband is an unlikely and nearly invisible accessory.

Carlos nods, walking in the direction to of City Hall where he can see someone standing in the cloying shade. Before he and C.C. can get there, however, a figure doesn't so much walk as glide in front of him. Bedecked in a black cloak that hides any identifying factors, the figure faces Carlos. A firm hand grips his shoulder and bodily moves him back several steps. And then C.C. is in front of him, blocking Carlos from the Hooded Figure's view with the bulk of his chest. “Excuse us,” he says in cool, polite tones. "Can we help you?"

The Hooded Figure just moves closer to the accompanying sound of static. The sound is grating, and it makes both men wince. It doesn't stop either, and it circles around them. Is--he? she? it?--considering them? Analyzing them? It's a strange sensation, and he shakes his head when C.C.'s hand strays to his waistband. Carlos doesn't really think bullets will do much to it. C.C. apparently agrees because he drops his hand without a word. After a few agonizing moments that stretch on forever, the Hooded Figure seems satisfied and glides off in a swirl of robes.

“Well then,” Carlos says, voice pitched a little oddly thanks to a combination of adrenaline, alarm, and shock. “That was an interesting first encounter with Night Vale's residents."

C.C. taps at his ears where they're likely still ringing a little bit. (Carlos knows his are.) "It could've gone a lot worse. I didn't shoot whatever that thing was, and it didn't make us go deaf. That's something I suppose."

Carlos nods, and, despite being distinctly unnerved now, turns to City Hall again. “Let’s just get through this so we can go back.” C.C. nods, hands falling casually to his sides as they approach the slack-jawed, hollow-eyed City Council rep, and Carlos sets about introducing himself. “I’m a scientist, and my team and I are just here to see what’s going on around here,” he explains to the mute Council rep. “We're set up in the lab space next to the pizza parlor, so if you need anything from us, someone will be down there.” When he’s done talking, C.C. leads the way back to the lab space, wary of any more Hooded Figures. Carlos follows behind, taking in more of the town now that he's not so distracted.

In the heat of the day, the town is mostly deserted, and Carlos sees only one person who sits in the White Sand Ice Cream parlor. The man isn't tall or short, not fat or thin; he’s impeccably dressed in a light purple button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, over which is a silver vest. His pants look black until he moves a leg and the searing sunlight reveals them to be dark purple. His foot taps out a sporadic beat as he fidgets with his phone, and is it just Carlos, or are the tattoos on the man’s darkly tanned arms moving? The man glances up, pinning Carlos with sharp, dark eyes framed by silver glasses. His head tilts curiously before glancing at the lab behind him and back to him. The man offers Carlos a grin revealing sharp teeth and pushes silver-white hair out of his face to reveal a third-eye tattoo opened to half-mast on his forehead. The man waves at him, and Carlos offers a friendly smile and a little wave of his own.

C.C., who’d wandered far ahead of Carlos and seemingly not noticed the man, calls over his shoulder, “Hey, you coming boss? The red-shirts are asking for you.”

Carlos huffs at the Star Trek reference, an inaccurate one at that. “Star Trek science officers were blue. If anyone would be a red-shirt, it would be you. Besides, they’re obviously minions, not red-shirts.”

C.C. laughs. “I’ll tell them you said that."

"I'll tell them myself," Carlos replies with a wide grin. He follows C.C. back to what's already beginning to feel like their lab, hopeful and excited and nervous and terrified all at once. He glances back, once and only once, to the little ice cream parlor. The admittedly attractive man is gone, and the only thing left is a small cup of lavender ice cream.


	2. Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cecil falls in love, and there is much awkward flailing on Carlos' part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always believed Carlos is actually good at flirting unless someone shows genuine romantic interest. Then he becomes awkward as hell.
> 
> Chapter 2 edited 6-9-16.

The radio is turned on as Carlos and his team gather baseline readings, calibrate equipment, and generally prepare themselves for their assignment in SHIELD’s absolute least desirable location. Mainly, the preparation for being thrust upon Night Vale with only a few days of warning at most (and most of them only got a day or two of warning) is bitching about the SHIELD bureaucracy that sent them here and thinking of ways to get back at Fury for tossing them to the sharks. Maybe not the most productive use of time, but it’s certainly satisfying and good for bonding between security and scientists.

Mendez laughs as C.C. and a few security officers are arguing over whether the scientists are red shirts (“It would be blue shirts, technically,” Rachelle corrects much to C.C.'s consternation and Carlos' amusement) or minions--much to the resigned amusement of said scientists--when Carlos hears something on that radio that draws his attention. “Turn up the volume!” he calls out over the din, and Dave immediately does so. They all listen with curious interest as Cecil's voice fills the room.

“A new man came into town today,” came the smooth voice from the radio. “Who is he? What does he want from us?” And, much to the horrified shock of Carlos, the radio host continues, “Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? He says he is a scientist. Well… we have all been scientists at one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And just what does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he’s renting? The one next to Big Rico’s Pizza?

“No one does a slice like Big Rico. No one.”

The SHIELD team continues to listen, with growing shock, to the “helicopter safety” segment and the report of the vanishing and reappearing commercial airliner.

“For shame, Desert Bluffs, for shame.”

Everyone jumps when Carlos turns the radio off, breaking the spell Cecil's voice seemed to have cast. He takes in his team, most of whom had been fine until the warnings about the helicopters “painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving,” and the ones who weren't too fazed by that were done with the teleporting airliner. Carlos notes that they handle themselves fairly well despite the shock. Carlos takes that as a good sign and knows their ability to handle shock will only get better as they spend more time in Night Vale.

“We all know this place is strange," Carlos starts, everyone's eyes on them expectantly. "We knew it was before we got here. We also know our job is to gather information on Night Vale.” Everyone nods with varying degrees of strength. C.C. lets out a firm, “Of course, sir.” That reassures Carlos. He needs to be a fixed point for his team, but it's good to know he has someone else who can keep their head in an emergency. “So let’s record our information.” Grabbing a supposedly illegal dry-erase marker, he writes down the three different types of helicopters on a wall-to-wall length, pre-installed white board: black, blue, bird mural. Mendez doesn't turn to his team, just faces the board, pen hovering expectantly. “What do we know about the helicopters?”

His scientists take a moment to collect their thoughts, but they gather them.

“Black is ‘world government,’” supplies Nilanjana, who only responds to Nils,

“And they seem to view this ‘world government’ with suspicion,” Stan adds in his quiet, thoughtful voice.

After that, Nils, Stan, Dave, Rachelle, and Cass talk around each other until Carlos caps the marker and regards their list with a slight nod. It reads:

-Black, World Government, suspicious  
-Blue, Sheriff's Secret Police (SSP), accepted  
-Bird murals, unknown, feared

Just under it is Desert Bluffs, underlined and waiting for more information to be added on as it comes up.

Carlos grins. All in all, a good day so far. Now he just needs to get ready for the town meeting he isn't actually thrilled about but is having at the insistence of the City Council and his team.

/=\=/=\

Wasn't Night Vale supposed to be a small town? Because it doesn't feel like a small town with the sheer amount of people milling about, People with more or less than two eyes, extra limbs, twisted body shapes, what looks like extra organs. Why did he agree to this again?

C.C.’s hand falls on his shoulder, grounding him to the wings of a stage. “You’ll be fine boss. Compared to the shit we deal with in SHIELD? This is nothing.” Carlos' security head grins an easy, reassuring smile.

Carlos laughs, and if the sound is pitched slightly higher than his usual laugh, C.C. is nice enough to ignore it. Carlos always knew there was a reason he liked C.C. “Have I ever mentioned I really, really hate public speaking?”

“You’ll be fine,” C.C. repeats, giving Mendez a little push to the stage. “Knock ‘em dead, boss.”

Mendez finds that once he’s moving, it’s easy to keep moving. Newton’s first law, the one regarding inertia: objects at rest tend to stay at rest, and objects in motion tend to stay in motion. So he’s going to keep moving, keep going, keep his momentum rolling forward so he doesn't awkwardly freeze in front of the entire town. “Hello, Night Vale, I’m Dr. Carlos Mendez.” He doesn't say he’s a scientist because most people probably listen to the radio, and they’re no doubt smart enough to realize he’s the scientist the radio host had mentioned.

“I’ll keep this short and sweet because I’m all sure we have important things to do tonight.” Because the night is when the desert community comes to life, people embracing the cool night air instead of battling the searing sunlight. “I’ll be frank in my saying Night Vale is by far the most scientifically interesting community in the US; my team and I have come here to study just what is going on around here.” He pauses, eyes flitting over the crowd, wondering if SHIELD’s reinforcements are there when he sees them lined against the back wall in the standard black suits. A grin splits his face, eyes bright with amusement when he sees Coulson and Sitwell standing shoulder to shoulder in a familiar show of impassive solidarity.

His eyes flit around once more, taking note of particularly impressive individuals. They eventually meet the violet eyes of the man of unremarkable height and weight from the ice cream shop, still dressed in the same clothes Mendez saw him in earlier, this time with a corn muffin instead of ice cream. The man is leaning forward in his seat, one arm draped across his knees; the elbow of his other arm is on a knee and propping his chin up. When he catches Mendez’s eyes, a grin blooms across the man’s face, all pointed teeth and surprising (awkward) affection.

/=\=/=\

Carlos escapes City Hall after an hour or so of the impromptu meet-and-greet, during which he doesn't see the man from the ice cream store and refrains from making faces at Phil Coulson, Jasper Sitwell, and other familiar agents. Barely. It's a very close thing though.

His arrival to the lab is greeted with grins that range from sly to amused to embarrassed. “Hey, Carlos, looks like you have a not-so-secret admirer!” Rachelle crows with a smile that definitely leans to sly. At his inquisitive glance, Rachelle clicks the play button on a small recorder; the lab is suddenly filled with radio host Cecil Palmer’s smooth voice.

“The new scientist (we now know is named Carlos) called a town meeting. He has a square jaw and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure.

“Old Woman Josie brought corn muffins which were decent but lacked salt. She said the Angels have taken her salt for a Godly mission, and she hadn't yet gotten around to buying more.

“Carlos told us that we are by far the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and he had come to study just what is going on around here. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly. Government agents from a vague yet menacing agency were in the back, watching. I fear for Carlos. I fear for Night Vale. I fear for anyone caught between what they know and what they don’t yet know that they don’t know.”

The recording continues, but Carlos hears none of it, too caught up in his bone-deep mortification. Oh God. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. Cecil thought--Cecil was--he’d said it on the radio. His thoughts circle in an endless positive feedback loop of embarrassment that makes his tan face turn an incredibly bright shade of red. He's the first to admit he's not exactly the best when it comes to emotion, especially the romantic sort of emotions. That, combined with the fact that he's generally a fairly private person, makes this experience somewhat excruciating.

It takes a while for his team to coax him out of his little bubble of embarrassment, but they do so with an unyielding patience Carlos is intensely grateful for. They might not really understand, but they don’t judge him for as he hides his cherry red face in his arms on a desk. He eventually props himself up in his seat, shoulders as he shoves his hair out of his face. “Sorry,” he apologizes to his team, focusing on taking deep breaths. “It’s just, I’m…”

“Incredibly embarrassed?” Cass supplies.

“I would be too,” Dave assures with an easy smile.

“No problems,” Stan agrees.

Nils huffs protectively, assuring him that they'd take care of Cecil if he tries anything Carlos isn't comfortable with, SHIELD orders be damned. Rachelle just sits next to him and slings an arm over his shoulder, C.C. taking the other side. Carlos offers them all a weak, genuinely grateful little smile.

Things will get better, Carlos assures himself. Today is better than yesterday. Tomorrow will be a little better. And that’s alright.

/=\=/=\

In no time at all, the Whiteboard of Science (as Rachelle dubbed it) fills with Carlos' scrawling handwriting.

There’s the ongoing investigation of the House That Doesn't Exist. The one that seems like it exists, like it’s just right there when you look at it. And of course when Cecil reports on it on his radio show, it’s when his team is gathered on the sidewalk in front of the nonexistent house as Rachelle and Dave dared the others to go knock on the door. None of the team remembered Cecil being there though.

Then there’s the unfelt seismic activity near Route 800. They had detected it, Carlos knew they did, and the brand new equipment can’t possibly be malfunctioning yet (Carlos is under no illusion that his gear wouldn't malfunction sooner or later, given the nature of Night Vale). He even checks the monitors on the off chance the wires are loose, but everything’s in perfect working order. Cecil’s recommendation of submitting an insurance claim regardless of any damage is found amusing by the science team.

The instance in which the sun doesn’t set at the correct time is particularly unnerving, at least for Carlos. At first they weren't sure if the clock Nils had glanced at was off for whatever reason, but all the clocks reported the same time: the sun set ten minutes later than is should have. Carlos has no clue how Cecil knows his team was staring at the clock, murmuring useless ideas, but they certainly weren't cooing at the damn clock.

The radioactivity incident is by far the most important to Mendez though, because that’s when he finally gets to meet Cecil Palmer, the man who's obsessed with him. When he goes to the radio tower, armed with only a Geiger Counter and determination born of a naturally curious nature and SHIELD training, he didn’t know what to expect of the capricious, enigmatic radio host. To his ever loving shock, it’s the definitely-not-cute man from the ice cream shop, today wearing shades of silver and white. He tries to explain that he was testing for radioactive materials but is alarmed into silence when the counter shrieks as it got near the microphone. Carlos jerks back as his body thrums with nervous energy; Cecil only smiles when Carlos tells him everyone needs to evacuate from the radio station. He tries to reason with the man who’s been exposed to radiation for hours, seemingly unaffected, before realizing this fact and fleeing for his own health.

Later, as night fades to dawn, he falls asleep that night with Cecil’s rolling voice whispering good night from the radio by his bed.


	3. Glow Cloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Glow Cloud hypnotizes SHIELD agents (which is a bit of Not Good), and Carlos gets used to Night Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, chapter 3! Sorry it took so long to post, I just got back from vacation. I'm gonna try to pump out as many chapters as possible before school starts cause I'm gonna be really busy this year!
> 
> Chapter 3 edited 6-9-16

It takes time, but Carlos and his team establish a routine. Routine is good. Routine is stable and comforting and predictable, not at all like Night Vale. Night Vale is the chaos theory personified, unpredictable and terrifying and even beautiful in a bizarre way.

The routine consists of nights of data-gathering for the scientists, an enjoyable if somewhat risky pastime, as they listen to Cecil’s radio show on small, portable radios Carlos and Nils jury-rigged out of available materials. When dawn (at whatever time it arrives) comes with the promise of heat, the team retires for a much deserved sleep of varying quality; they wake up in the late afternoon, coffee and tea in hand, to process the data obtained the previous night. Then the night arrives once more, and everything repeats in glorious, reassuring repetition.

Before the establishment of the routine, members of the security team followed their scientists, but they quickly found there wasn't much they can do without risking the delicate balance SHIELD struck for them with the SSP. It infuriates them, their inability to do their job, but they make themselves useful; said usefulness is mainly gathering data on people of note, the one’s Cecil talks about on his show. They talked to Old Woman Josie, out by the car lot, but refuse to say anything about angels, though the team had been gifted with a large white “angel” feather. (The team still isn't sure which angel gave them the foot-long feather as the only information they had was C.C.’s mumble reference to eldritch horrors.)

The scientists investigate the Hooded Figures that mostly ignore them, they talk to the Apache tracker who was indeed an asshole, they watch ghost cars racing in the distance and lights zipping over the highway at responsible speeds, and watch the lights above the Arby’s in cautious, wondering awe.

The lab is empty as Carlos works on organizing data and findings for the Director to go through, the room silent but for the low timber of Cecil’s voice. As he hears something that catches his interest, he scratches down absent-minded notes about it. _Radon Canyon should not be visited under any circumstances_ , he scribbles, only half his attention on the radio.

His attention is immediately caught by the words, “--death has already been attributed to the Glow Cloud.” Carlos' mouth and his eyebrows arch (and he’s sure his team has similar expressions) drop in horror as Cecil continues in a low, conspiratorial tone, “But listen, it’s probably nothing. If we had to shut down the town for every mysterious event that at least one death could be attributed to, we’d never have time to do anything, right? That’s what the Sheriff’s Secret Police say, and I agree. Although, I would not go so far as to endorse their suggestion to run directly at the cloud, shrieking and waving your arms, just to see what it does.”

When he’s sure Cecil is done with the Glow Cloud for now, Mendez erases the “ghost car” section of the Whiteboard of Science (turns out Rachelle's nickname for the thing is catching) to write down “Glow Cloud,” and the bit about it he caught about it. He knows his team members were paying attention better than he was.

He also jots down notes about “the great screaming” at the post office and the supposed information the asshole Apache Tracker found. And then, as if his night couldn’t get any weirder, Cecil starts talking about a floating cat. A cat, trapped in a hover-spot four feet off the floor of the men’s restroom in a radioactive radio station. (The whole team refused to admit to the irony of radio activity being radioactive. Nope, not gonna happen.)

He’s slightly dazed by the time the Coca Cola add is over, mouth coated with the taste unripe peaches and nostrils filled with an unfamiliar, inescapable smell. He recalls recollections of other inescapable situations and other smells. He recalls looking up from a rapidly spinning world to a night sky filled with a slinking, bloated moon. He recalls how deeply he focused on regulating his breathing, and letting go of… something.

When an alarm in the lab goes off to remind him of the city-wide questionnaire organized by SHIELD, he feels a little less certain of how an alarm clock works.

/=\=/=\ 

There are several familiar faces administering the questionnaire at the Night Vale Elementary School gym. FitzSimmons is there, and they struggle to contain themselves when they see Carlos, who simply offers a little smile. There’s Jasper Sitwell, calm and unflappable in the face of anything, even Night Vale citizens. Phil Coulson (who seems to know everyone) is managing one Clint Barton, who’s mostly unfazed by any extra and/or missing eyes, limbs, etc. Natasha Romanoff is on Barton’s other side and offers Carlos a discreet finger wave for a greeting. This draws Coulson’s and Barton’s attention to him; Both men nod their greeting, as does Carlos.

If any Night Vale citizens are surprised by government agents from a Vague Yet Menacing Agency behaving in such a way, no one dares comment.

Funny, considering half the population in Night Vale could kill half a dozen agents before a single shot could be fired. Not that guns would do any good since Mendez is 98.25% sure Night Valians are actually immune to bullets.

Carlos can’t afford to go say hi to his long-time colleagues and friends, but it’s reassuring to see them there. To know he and his team aren’t forgotten or in exile.

He lingers for as long as he can, but eventually Carlos has to leave. He feels lighter than he has since he came to Night Vale.

/=\=/=\ 

Half an hour later, Carlos finds himself musing on the new Boy Scout hierarchy and wondering how it was before the changes; he also wonders just how random the sign-up is. (And if he wonders if Cecil was ever a Boy Scout, well, no one but him knows because he’d never admit it.)

Carlos perks up as Cecil mentions the Glow Cloud, grabbing the appropriately marked folder, pen poised over a sheet of paper. He scratches down the location (Old Town Night Vale), and the fact that it seems to be raining down small animals like armadillos, lizards, and crows. He also makes notes of the facts that A) there’s an apparent need for an eternal animal pyre, and B) animals (dead or otherwise) rain down on Night Vale often enough to necessitate the creation of umbrellas strong enough to withstand animals.

He waits for Cecil to move on from the Glow Cloud before grabbing a nearby walkie-talkie. Compressing the button after a fortifying breath, he asks, “Hey, it’s Carlos. Anyone in Old Town Night Vale?”

“We got ya covered boss,” C.C. drawls to the background sound of rhythmic _thumps_ , “Stan's with me. It’s raining cats and dogs over here.”

There’s a muffled sound, and then Stan corrects C.C. “It’s actually raining armadillos and lizards out here. I think I’ve spotted a crow or two around.”

Mendez takes a moment to attempt to rub the headache away with a muttered, “ _Dios Mio_.” Into the walkie-talkie, he says, “I heard on the radio but I wanted to make sure. The Glow Cloud?”

There’s a long period of radio silence, one that’s just long enough to rouse the stirring of panic because _no no no they’re fine they’re okay they have to be okay please be okay_ he's paranoid about things like that; when Adrian radios in, voice filled with quiet awe. “It’s gorgeous Carlos. The most beautiful thing, like a sunset caught in a cloud, but the colors change and shimmer and-”

“Get back to the lab now Stan. You too C.C.” He doesn’t mean for the words to come out so sharply, but it seems to bring Stan out of his dazed, dream-like tone.

Carlos can only imagine Stan's, and presumably C.C.’s, bleary blink as C.C. mutters, “Um, yeah, okay, I mean yes, sir.”

The walkie-talkie goes to static for a second until Carlos says in a sharp, careful voice, “Guys, I’d like everyone to get back to the lab actually. I don’t like this Glow Cloud much.” Carlos counts as each member of the team confirms they’re coming back: four scientists and three guards, and C.C. is with Stan which is good. C.C. has an immense protective, and he’ll make sure Stan gets back alright.

Carlos waits for the others as they trickle in and wait in terse silence, bodies practically vibrating with anxious energy. Rachelle and Dave head in first and return to their places around the communal island in the middle of the lab in silence and begin working reports. Carlos is going over notes as Cass, Nils , and a pair of security guards walk in, heading to their designated places. C.C. and Stan arrive when he’s scratching down information on Hiram McDaniels, literally a five headed dragon, and their hazy expressions increase the tenseness from “almost possible to ignore” to “undeniably there”. The scene when the final two security guards walk in is one of brisk, anxious working, though everyone relaxes somewhat when everyone is back safe and sound.

Nils is the one to start the conversation because Nils, bless her heart, is always the one to start conversations, no matter how awkward or stressful. “So,” she’s says, voice deliberately light as she gives C.C. in the back of the room and Stan across from her a careful look. “The Glow Cloud.”

The pair, whose expression had been clearing, immediately get a dazed look augmented by the slight, bemused smiles at the corners of their mouths. “It’s beautiful,” Stan hums, swaying slightly in his seat.

“All hail the mighty Glow Cloud,” C.C. mutters, almost too faint to hear. The security straightens up, hands going to the stun guns belted to their waists. Jason, second only to C.C. on the security team, gives Carlos an inquiring look. The whole team is giving him an inquisitive look in fact. Carlos shrugs helplessly, gesturing to the pair who are still gibbering about the Glow Cloud. The women smile sympathetically, if tightly; Dave shrugs diplomatically, offering Carlos a knowing nod. This is all the tacit permission he needs from his team to give security (who had maneuvered themselves behind C.C. and Stan, smart people, Jason and Lisa), who have their stun guns out and used before anyone can blink because they don't know what Stan and C.C. are capable with right now.

Jason catches C.C. and Lisa grabs Stan as they stagger, Stan's eyes blinking rapidly and C.C. looking vaguely surprised.

“Get them to their rooms before they recover completely,” Carlos says, voice soft but carrying. The security guards that are fully conscious escort the pair upstairs to their rooms above the lab.

“Will they be okay?” Rachelle asks, voice calm despite her clenched fists. Carlos understands. This isn't the first time they'd all worked together, and the six scientists are good friends.

“I don’t know. They should be. I hope so.” Carlos pinches his nose, sighs, and continues. “We’ll keep them under observation up there until it passes or we can figure out how to help them.”

“What if we can’t help them?”

Carlos isn’t sure who asks the question, but he fixes his scientists and the returned security guards with firm looks. “We will help them. These are our people, and we’ll find someway to help them, no matter what.”

Everyone nods and bends over their work as Cecil burbles soothing noises over the radio. No one speaks, not when Carlos begins marking events on the community calendar (Saturday: unknowable public library from 6-11. Sunday: Dot day, red for love, blue for hate. Monday: Bluegrass lessons @ Louie’s burned down music shop. Tuesday: PTA bake sale. Wednesday was just crossed out. Thursday: free concert.), definitely not when the Glow Cloud reportedly doubled size, certainly not when they see a lion fall on the White Sand Ice Cream Shop before they close the windows, and not even when Cecil echoes C.C.’s earlier statement of “All hail the Glow Cloud!”

The abrupt switch to the not-weather and definitely-music is unnerving and everyone twitches when it does.

“This is a stupid song,” Dave decides as they listen to the song, which mostly consists of repetitive statements of “Waitin’ in the bus for the rain”.

“Agreed,” Carlos mutters, trying and maybe kind of succeeding in sounding casual. He opens his mouth to continue when Cecil’s voice washes over, confused and dazed.

Carlos would never admit it, but the concern for Cecil that hits him is like running into a brick wall.

“Sorry, listeners. Not sure what happened in that earlier section of the broadcast. As in, I actually _don’t remember_ what happened. Tried to play back the tapes, but they’re all blank and smell faintly of vanilla.”

There’s only relief when Cecil says the Glow Cloud is gone, “just a humming spot in the distance, humming east to destination unknown.”

And Carlos almost chokes, body tightening when it feels like Cecil’s speaking to him and only him when he says, “Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious glowing cloud devouring your entire community. While they’re happening they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on.

“And then the Glow Cloud moves on. And you move on. And the event is behind you. And you may find that, as time passes, you remember it less and less. Or absolutely not at all, in my case.

“And you are left with nothing but a powerful wonder at the fleeting nature of even the most important things in life — and the faint but pretty smell of vanilla.”

Because now he's thinking of old memories, most of which he hasn't thought of in a very long time. He's thinking of his parents' divorce when he was eight, how his dad just leaving them hurt, and how it felt like such a big deal. And how he got used to the disappointment when his dad promised to visit but never did. And now he doesn't care anymore, has moved past it.

He's still stewing in his thoughts when Rachelle's arm wraps around his shoulder, Nil's hand squeezes his arm, and the rest of his team gathering close (even C.C. and Stan, confused and annoyed but no less nostalgic than the rest of them) as they listen to Cecil's surprisingly soothing voice.

Even as Cecil’s voice brings back memories, some Carlos hadn't remembered in a very long time.

"Emotions you don't understand upon viewing a sunset." _Carlos and his siblings sprawled along the beach, watching as the ocean catches on fire as the sun sinks, pleased and content._ "Lost pets, found. Lost pets, unfound. A secret lost pet city on the moon." _Carlos and his little brother and sister taking care of a lost puppy, their older sister's expression when she was on leave._ "Trees with eyes. Restaurants with ears. A void that thinks." _Long discussions that end in the agreement that, yes, walls hear so much more than they let on, and it would be interesting to hear what they've heard._ "A face half-seen just before falling asleep." _Carlos babysitting his two-year-old niece for the first time, the two of them watching a movie together as they drift off._

“Trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items.” _Carlos, shaking, bloody, and bruised but just as alive as the rest of the team as they endure the scrutiny of the SHIELD medical._ “Sandwiches. Silence when there should be noise.” _The entire house is too silent and still as the last of his parents' shouts fade into oblivion, and Carlos desperately wishes they'd stop fighting._ “Noise when there should be silence.” _The constant noise of the medical equipment is so loud, it echoes in Carlos' ears because Sylvie's alright, his big sister will be okay, but it was so close, too close._ “Nothing when you want something.” _He's sixteen and in New York for the first time, sixteen in college and he misses his family because he's never been this alone._ “Something when you thought there was nothing.” _He wishes his classmates would leave him alone and stop treating him like a little kid because he's not, he's here isn't he?_

“Clear plastic binder sheets. Scented dryer sheets. Rain coming down in sheets.” _Carlos and his team, his friends, laughing as they run down the sidewalk, ducking into the nearest restaurant._ “Night.” _Working long into the night, solving mysteries with the people he enjoyed being around._ “Rest.” _His brain, constantly buzzing and never letting him a moment's rest._ “Sleep.” _He can't sleep so he crawls onto the roof of his childhood home, studies the stars and the constellations and their stories._ “End.” _Everything's packed and ready to go, and he waves to his family as he leaves for college, young and stubborn and excited to see the world._

“Good night, listeners, good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I die, put "I told you I'd die from formatting." on my tombstone.


	4. Station Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cecil pisses Station Management off, and Carlos becomes very protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this up, my mom is moving & I've been helping her with everything. And school's coming, bluh.
> 
> Chapter 4 edited 6-9-16

Carlos observes himself in his mirror, not out of vanity but out of concern.

Night Vale changes people. Carlos has seen some of these changes firsthand in the agents that came to the desert burg before him. Those changes aren't good. They’re terrible, in fact. Agents, good agents, good people, reduced to howling gibberish at shadows, clawing at too-gaunt faces. Carlos prefers that to the other type though, the ones that just sit and stare in the middle distance, unresponsive to the world outside the one Night Vale created in their minds. It’s nothing he can quite pinpoint, but these people look different, marked.

But he also observes himself to see what makes him so different as to not just survive but _thrive_ in Night Vale. (And if his thoughts keep circling back to Cecil, well, he’s fairly sure that his thoughts are as private as they can be in a town where telepathy is not unheard of.)

Which is why he’s studying himself in the mirror, comparing the memory of his appearance to the image he sees now. There isn't much difference: the same sharp jaw, the same dark skin, the same clever light brown eyes, the same little head tilt when he observes things, the same mop of black curls. The only notable difference he can detect is the touch of silver at the temples of his now overly long hair.

He needs to get it cut, especially with Nils, Cass, and Rachelle threatening flower crowns and braids. That is something that most definitely does not need to happen. He’d never live it down.

It’s only 9:30 at night. That should be more than enough time to run out for a quick hair cut. He’s pretty sure he saw a place called Telly’s a block or two over.

/=\=/=\ 

Telly seems like a nice enough man: thick around the waist with a small mustache and heavy accent. He’s fine with Carlos scribbling the occasional note as they make small talk with Cecil’s voice playing in the background.

By the time his hair is trimmed to short length he's favored since high school and he’s paying Telly, his small omnipresent notebook has notes on the following:

-Nov. 10th Parade of Mysterious Hooded Figures in Night Vale Stadium.  
-Hooded Figures: 1 hides under slide in NV Elementary slide, group meets regularly in Dog Park, 1 that sometimes steals babies & everyone let him for some reason (talk to CC about that)  
-Station management: never seen, communicates through sealed envelopes, large w/tendrils ( **???** ), disproportionate sized office for radio station  
- **”HR retraining session in the Dark Box”???**  
-Daily shades of sky forecast: how does it work???

He’s walking back to the lab as Cecil talks about litter, and Carlos does not run when he sees a soda can marked with a red flag. He does skirt around it, but that’s only because he has the unfortunate mental image of it growing arms.

Then his walkie-talkie chirps. Just as Cecil reports he is “fielding numerous reports that books have _stopped working_ ”.

“Ah man,” Carlos groans, bringing the walkie-talkie up as he breaks into a run. “Don’t do anything until I get there.”

“Yes, sir,” C.C. responds, and damn it all if Carlos' security head doesn't sound as relieved as hell.

/=\=/=\ 

“So,” Rachelle says, and everyone drags their attention to her. “That happened.”

“Yeah,” Stan agrees, rubbing his arm that got caught by some sparks. “That happened.”

Carlos glances up at his team, taking in their shell-shocked appearances as he deftly bandages C.C.’s hand when he hears Cass mutter, “That was pretty impressive. Even for Night Vale. That was impressive, I am impressed.”

Everyone makes sounds of agreement.

“What’s even more impressive is the fact that I’m kinda agreeing with City Council on the topic of books right not,” C.C. sighs, scowling as Carlos jerks the bandages tightly to stop the bleeding.

The repeated sounds of agreement come slightly more reluctantly.

Then Dave takes a deep breath in through his nose, and sighs. “The place still smells like meat, dammit.”

Nils grins weakly. “Could be worse.” At Carlos' arched eyebrow, she shrugs. “I’d rather be smelling meat than lethal gas.

And that, as it turns out, is the exact wrong thing to say to exhausted scientists who just finished dealing with broken books that _bit and sparked and smelled of meat_.

Carlos can’t even properly chastise them for their semi-hysterical giggles because he’s 85% sure his giggles are just slightly more hysterical than the rest.

/=\=/=\ 

It’s fairly quiet for a while after the book incident, with the team staying in the lab to go over data and recording that Intern Chad is at best a prisoner of the World Government and at worst dead at the hand of said World Government; the Used and Discount Sporting Goods store is in fact a front for the World Government, but Play Ball is to be “completely trusted” as it’s “only a front for the Sheriff’s Secret Police”.

Then something happens.

It’s subtle at first, just a faint trepidation, that something just out of sight isn't right. At first, Carlos thinks it’s just him, the stress ratcheting up his anxiety level. But his team can feel it too. Carlos can tell in the way cheerful banter fades to silence, the slight stoop or hunch to everyone’s shoulders. And it grows worse, and something is wrong, it’s terribly, terribly wrong, and he can’t breathe.

Abruptly, Carlos jerks back, further into his chair, because his skin is crawling, and the walls are closing in tight, too tight. No one interrupts him because they’re too busy gasping for breath, faces screwed into expressions of terror. Carlos should care, some part of him does care, but it’s rapidly buried under the paranoid certainty that he’s going to die, something’s coming for him and he’s going to die and no one will ever know what did him in.

The instinct to find somewhere small, somewhere enclosed and safe, is a powerful one. It propels him to the corner of the room where he can see everything coming, even if he can't stop it. Carlos curls up in as small a ball as he can manage, shaking and muffling his terrified pants in his arms. He's certain that this is it, this is how he's going to die, and he can't do anything to stop it.

In an indeterminate amount of time, Carlos uncoils his stiff limbs and shaking muscles; his head falls back against the wall. His breaths even out after he concentrates and uses a breathing technique he picked up when he was younger: breathe in seven seconds, hold four, out eleven, in seven, hold four, out eleven, in seven…

When he's finally breathing and thinking properly, Carlos staggers to his feet, ignoring the protesting muscles all over his body. He moves doggedly, determined to check on his friends, when he almost trips over C.C. The field agent sits cross-legged on the ground, face buried in his hands and hidden from Carlos' view. Carlos isn't blind though, and he could see the way C.C.'s shoulders tremble slightly. "C.C.?" Carlos asks gently.

When the man doesn't reply, Carlos risks putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. It's a bad move, he knows it the moment he does it, and he’s proven right as C.C. swings, fist arching forward on instinct even as the man attached to it opens his eyes and presses himself closer to the wall. Carlos only just manages to avoid a broken nose, but he staggers backwards, putting his weight on his ankle in a funny way.

A sound of pain tears through Carlos' throat because _hijo de puta_ that hurts. It seems to bring C.C. out of his panic-induced daze though, because his now clear eyes are wide with horror as he lunges up and forward to steady Carlos. “Shit, boss, I’m sorry--I didn't mean--are you okay?”

“I’m fine, C.C. I swear, I just fell back and landed on my ankle funny.” Carlos puts his meager medical experience to use and probes his ankle cautiously. He doesn't think he feels any broken bones, which is definitely a good thing. “Go check on everyone else.”

C.C. nods, helping Carlos up, before striding forward with a fiercely determined look to his face. Carlos moves at a much slower pace, using the wall as a crutch and careful not to put any weight on his throbbing ankle. The team is milling about by the time he gets down to the lab, and nine chalky, anxious faces relax slightly when they see him. No one bothers to say anything or do anything except for C.C., who turns up the volume on the radio.

“Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reported that a Creeping Fear came into Night Vale today. He felt it first as a mild apprehension, then a growing worry, and finally a mortal panic. It passed from him to the employees at the Car Lot, who crouched behind their cars and cast fearful eyes at the empty sky. It did not affect Old Woman Josie, presumably because of her angelic protection, but it went from there to the rest of the town until we all were shivering in anticipation for a terrible thing we could not yet see.

“I myself was frozen, sure that any movement would lead to my death, that any word would be my last.”

And it startles Carlos, the fierce and sudden mental image of Cecil, alone and terrified at his radio booth. This surprising, unforeseen protectiveness is only augmented when Cecil continues, “Of course, that also could have been the contracts negotiations with station management and the hideous envelope I just received. “Also, I’m battling Lyme disease.”

This strange little non sequitur brings weak, if genuinely amused, smiles to the team’s faces. Smiles are replaced by swooping relief as Cecil continues, “Meanwhile, the Creeping Fear passed, first leaving Larry Leroy out on the edge of town, and then the Car Lot, where they went back to offering gently used cars at affordable prices, and finally the rest of us--who could go back to living with the knowledge that at any given moment we will either live or die, and it’s no use guessing which." And on that discomforting thought, Cecil adds, “It is not currently known where the Creeping Fear will go next--hopefully to Desert Bluffs. It would _serve them right_.”

Cass arches a brow. “Good to see where Cecil’s priorities lie.”

And for the second time in one night, the team bursts into semi-hysterical giggles.

That should be an unacceptable number, it really should, but Carlos doesn't think it really matters.

/=\=/=\ 

“I cannot believe he just did that,” Carlos mumbles, scarlet face buried in the crook of his elbow as he slumps over his desk. “I cannot _believe_ him.”

And really, Carlos could not understand Cecil at all! He just sicced the entire town of Night Vale on Telly! And all because he did his _job_ and cut Carlos' hair! Carlos--it--Cecil--just, “Ugh!” And Dave is grinning as he pats Carlos' shoulder and makes consoling noises, Carlos knows he is, just like he knows his whole team is laughing at his embarrassed misery, even as they assure him it’s probably Cecil overreacting and nothing will happen.

When he finally glances up, Nils and Rachelle are very obviously pouting (at least Cass is much more subtle about it). “You two are pouting,” Carlos says at length. “Why?”

“Because,” Nils huffs, “we wanted to braid your hair.”

“And maybe make you a flower crown,” Rachelle adds. “You’d look adorable in a flower crown.”

Carlos considers this for a moment. Then: “No.”

Cass asks, “No to the flower crown or no to looking adorable in a flower crown?”

“No,” Carlos repeats, because it bears repeating and, “No, that’s never gonna happen.”

“I bet you’d do it if Cecil asked you,” Rachelle says with a one-part sly, one-part smug, two-part shit-eating grin as she draws Cecil’s name out in a sing-song way.

Carlos manages to glare at her. “You’re not helping yourself. You’re really not.” But she kind of is because the idea of Cecil’s thrilled grin and childish laugh does funny things to Carlos' stomach as he bites back a ridiculous grin. “Just get back to work.”

And everyone does as much as they can, though Rachelle, and now Nils and Cass, have those stupid, knowing smiles.

They listened to the traffic for a brief moment before Cecil’s horrified voice comes over the radio, sounding more fearful than any of the team’s ever heard. Even as he struggles to keep calm, his voice shakes, especially as he murmurs, “Station management, which was not… pleased with my discussion of their physical attributes and behavior and is now threatening to shut down my show--or possibly my life--for good.”

This sends a bolt of panic through everyone on the team but none more so than Carlos, though he forces himself to think clearly, even as Cecil begs people to write letters that can possibly help save his life.

The metallic grinding sound makes everyone jump, shock mixing with adrenaline as everyone bolts upright. The team stays perfectly still throughout the segment about Big Rico’s. Everyone wants to go help Cecil because Cecil, despite his odd and more than occasionally unpredictable behavior, is a good person in need of help, and his team wants nothing more than to go help him. It’s what they do, and it goes against every instinct they have to just sit when anyone’s in trouble. But they’re helpless and they know it. Cecil can speak of the Hooded Figures, beings they couldn't hope to stand against, with utter fearlessness, so how can they hope to help Cecil against the monstrosities that is station management?

It was maddening and infuriating and distressing in equal parts, especially as Cecil’s voice, soft, terrified whisper washes over the air accompanied by the same metallic sound as before. And then it cuts to the damn “weather” and the team waits in silent anticipation.

/=\=/=\ 

Cecil’s voice is still unnaturally small and panicky, still accompanied by the sound of metallic grinding and the occasional low roar in the distance, but it’s Cecil, and the wave of relief is enough to make Carlos slump in relief.

He can smack Cecil for broadcasting his location, but Cecil's terrified and panicking and not thinking clearly. Carlos sits there, though, body rigged with the urge to go _help_ , to do _something_ , _anything_.

“I don’t know exactly what management looks like, as that is when I took cover under my desk, and I can only hope that they are not listening to what’s going out right now or else I may have sealed my fate. I can hear only a kind of clicking footstep and faint hissing sound like--releasing steam.” Carlos can’t hear the sound, but he can imagine it, and his teeth grit at the mental image it presents for what Cecil is going through, what with the mechanical grating sound in the background.

The blood roars in Carlos' ears, and he’s only peripherally aware of standing. He’s also vaguely aware that C.C. is standing behind him, not to stop Carlos but to help him. And this is probably why the Director assigned him and C.C. as the heads of the team, he realizes on some level. Both men are very similar on a fundamental level, protective and loyal to the core, willing to do anything for those who need it.

He and C.C. are halfway to the door before the rest of team can get up, and they’re three-quarters of the way out before the team is in their way with wide eyes and pleading words. Carlos can’t quite make out the words, what with the haze of concern and worry clouding his brain, but the fear in his team’s voice drags him back to earth like nothing else.

“Carlos, please!” Nils pleads, hands on his shoulders in a desperate bid to halt his forward momentum. And because he can’t hurt her, because it goes against everything in his being to hurt someone he cares for, he pauses even as body practically vibrates with energy. 

“You can’t do this! You’ll be killed!” Stan adds. When that doesn't achieve the desired effect, his scientists’ eyes take on a pained look.

“Don’t do this to us Carlos,” Dave says in a hard, fierce voice. “Don’t you dare do this to us. We can’t lose you.”

Cass nods, ponytail swinging wildly. “What do you think will happen to us if you get yourself killed?”

It’s enough to keep him rooted to his spot, body a strained line of furious energy but still. He can’t force himself to relax, not really, until Rachelle says in low tones, “Do you think Cecil would want you to throw your life away for him?” He jerks, shoulders tense to the point of pain beneath her gentle palm. “He wouldn't want that Carlos, he cares for you too much to do that to him.” He glares, he tries to at least, but he’s more disturbed by the fact that she knows _that_ of all things is what will force him to relax.

Because now he does. He deliberately relaxes every muscle, purposefully softens the stiff lines in his shoulders, knowingly unclenches his fists and jaw, voluntarily loosens the muscles in his chest enough to suck in deep breaths.

All of this happens in only a moment, that’s how fast everything happens, but his team is hesitantly herding him and C.C. to stools (hesitantly because C.C. isn't head of the security team in one of the most dangerous SHIELD locations for nothing, and Carlos is friends with Clint and Natasha, who taught him quite a few things about self defense) just as Cecil murmurs into the mic, “If you don’t hear from me again, it has truly been a pleasure.

“Good night, Night Vale, and goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a chapter to "A Hero's Incidents" in which Carlos goes to check on Cecil. I promise I will.


	5. PTA Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the team battles massive prehistoric insects and contemplate being flies in the web that is Night Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thanking so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and especially the comments. Seeing how much everyone likes this makes me so happy and really helps me write this when the chapters are being difficult. I can hug all of you.
> 
> Longest chapter yet. Bluh. It demanded to be written this way. I can't figure out why, but it did. And this is what you get.
> 
> Chapter 5 edited 6-9-16

It’s a tradition that every few days or so, the team has a big dinner/lunch/meal. Everyone takes turns cooking, usually meals that they grew up with which means lots of ethnic dishes. Rachelle later blames Carlos, who used science equipment to cook: little burners heating tortillas, the sample fridge full of drinks, the sink for cleaning equipment full of dirty dishes. To make up for the extra mess, Carlos feeds everybody. It’s not a big hardship or anything, doing that, because Carlos is used to cooking for his large family and doesn’t cook well for one.

Everyone enjoys it, and a few days later, Dave is feeding everyone some Haitian dishes he grew up with. Then Rachelle makes dark chocolate cake with milk chocolate ice cream and filling. Stan makes fish and chips. Nils makes the best curry they've ever tasted, even though Carlos is the only other person who doesn't mind the spiciness. Cass makes bbq, then it’s Carlos' turn again. No one questions it, and everyone enjoys the food..

“Cake’s really good, Rachelle,” C.C. mumbles around a mouthful of cake, since it’s her turn. The scientists nod, too busy inhaling cake to do much else; Rachelle beams at them all. Carlos motions everyone to silence as Cecil’s show begins.

“The sun has grown so very, very old. How long cold, fading death? How long?

“Welcome to Night Vale.

“Our top story: Last night’s Night Vale PTA meeting ended in bloodshed as a rift in space-time split open in the Main Street Recreation Center Auditorium, setting loose several confused and physically aggressive pteranodons. The glowing portal remained open and shrieked incessantly, an unholy sound that witnesses say resembled noisy urchin children caught in a combine harvester and then slowed down and amped up through some kind of open source, easy-to-use audio editing software.”

Everyone is moving with brisk efficiency, Nils lunging for a sheaf of blank papers to take notes, Rachelle and Carlos grabbing their gear to speak to witnesses to the event, C.C. and Dave grabbing their gear to accompany Carlos and Rachelle, and the rest of the team and security going to survey the damage at the Recreation Center Auditorium. Carlos is proud of how well his team works without even speaking to each other, competent and confident in what they have to do.

As the teams sans Nils disperse through the barely-awake town, Carlos continues to keep an ear on the radio, mapping out interactions and filing away names for any future use. “The pteranodons mostly attacked women with glasses. Authorities are still unsure why, as Night Vale’s only flying dinosaur expert, Joel Eisenberg, still has not recovered from last year’s bout with throat spiders.”

Carlos winces, and he can almost imagine his team cringing since they all loathe spiders with a passion after the whole paperwork incident on Dot Day. He respects spiders and appreciates their role in the ecosystem, but still. _Throat spiders._ That sounds like a whole lot of not-fun.

“It took most of an hour to corral the panicked beasts back into the vortex and resume the meeting--” because Night Vale is just crazy enough to do that, “--which had mostly been upon recent lunchroom price hikes and had devolved into name calling because Susan Williams called Diane Crayton’s son Josh 'a bit tubby' and that 'maybe he needs a financial incentive to eat less'.” Oh, if that isn’t a recipe for disaster, Mendez doesn’t know what is. Hell hath no fury like a mother defending her children.

Carlos' lips quirk up as Cecil continues, “In this reporter’s opinion,” oh, this oughta be good, “Susan Williams is dangerously obsessed with the New York Time’s best selling Freakonomics books. Dangerously so.” Carlos and Rachelle chuckle, and even Dave and C.C. crack a grin.

“Fortunately, no one was injured or killed in the incident, although experts from Timothy’s Auditorium Repair Contractors Inc. estimates close to $750,000 in damage has been done to the Rec Center Auditorium. And that cost includes free storm windows and a complementary seasonal installation consultation.”

“‘Free’ my ass,” Dave mutters, rolling his eyes. Rachelle chuckles, and Dave's eyes light up a bit when she does. Carlos and C.C. lock eyes and grin. Poor kid doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, crushing on Rachelle .

“Doesn’t matter,” Carlos says in regards to the broadcast. “We have a job to do, so let’s do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Dave and Rachelle trill with identical grins, and C.C. merely snaps a smart salute as they continue walking.

/=\=/=\ 

Who knew talking with PTA moms could be so exhausting. And filled with so much gossip. Carlos thinks he’s heard more gossip in the past hour from these women than he’s heard his whole life, including his time in SHIELD barracks, and no one in SHIELD can’t _not_ gossip.

Dave sums this sentiment up perfectly when he says, “Damn, these women gossip more than newb SHIELD agents.” Rachelle arches a brow, and C.C. and Carlos snort in agreement.

“Are they really that bad?” she asks, head tilted to an angle. “I mean, yeah, newb agents are kind of clueless and obnoxious, but I wouln’t’ve though they gossip.”

“Oh, they gossip,” Carlos sighs. “Especially the ones recruited from other agencies. I think it’s just because it makes their jobs seem a lot… Saner. More normal.”

C.C. laughs. “And here I thought it was just because most newb agents are little shits.”

Carlos grins . “Well, I never said they weren’t. A few SHIELD missions and a run-in or two with Barton and Romanoff tend to take care of that.” Just as everyone laughs, something Cecil says catches his attention; he turns up the volume on the portable radio clipped onto his belt, and the other’s dutifully fall silent.

“It’s election season again, and you know what that means! Sheriff’s Secret Police will be coming by to collect certain family members so that everyone votes for the correct council seats and there’s no confusion. These family members will be held in a secure and undisclosed location, which everyone knows is the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town. But don’t let the name fool you, listeners: it’s been used for years for so many kidnappings and illegal detentions that the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town is actually a pretty nice location these days, featuring king-sized beds, free wifi, and HBO. Also torture cubicles, but I don’t think anyone’s going to make the Council use those.

“Remember, this is America: vote correctly or never see your loved ones again.

“This message brought to you by the City Council.”

For a long moment, everyone is silent, eyes shut against the insanity that is Night Vale. “He’s way too cheerful for all of this,” Dave mutters. “I mean, seriously, how can he sound so… not upset by all of this?”

C.C. shrugs as helplessly as does Carlos. “Cecil was probably raised with all of this,” Rachelle points out thoughtfully. “For him, all of this,” she waves a hand, indicating Night Vale and its particular brand of craziness in general, “is probably normal. Take him out of this and into our world? He’d probably be as confused as we are.”

“‘Normal is an illusion’,” C.C. quotes thoughtfully. “‘What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.’”

“The Addams Family?” Carlos asks around a smile.

C.C. nods. “I think it’s fitting, in a way.”

“Yeah, but in this case, it’s a town of Addams’,” Rachelle scoffs.

“‘What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly,’” Dave muses, then something akin to nervous horror blossoms on his face. “Wait, does that makes us the flies? Cause I really don’t like the idea of being eaten by anything, especially not _Night Vale_.”

Carlos smiles reassuringly at the younger man. “No one’s eating anyone,” he soothes, “not on my watch.” This settles Dave slightly, though he still seems somewhat apprehensive. Rachelle, bless her heart, distracts him with her bright smile.

The two of them eventually trail ahead, and C.C. gives him a serious look. “How’re you so sure nothing’s gonna eat us boss?”

Carlos shrugs, not quite sure how to articulate the absolute assurance he feels in regards to this. “For one, we’re now the SHIELD record holders of Longest Time in Night Vale. Two…” Carlos pauses once more, glancing up at a full moon. “I just get the feeling someone out there’s on our side, you know?”

C.C. nods, sparing the moon a look as well. “Yeah, I think I do boss. We better go make sure our minions aren’t getting into any trouble.”

Carlos laughs triumphantly. “Told you they’re minions!” he crows to C.C.’s groan. And if he notices a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, if he catches sight of an elvish being with dark purple skin and pupils just like the full moon, well.

Carlos doesn’t want to say anything until he has solid proof. Because in Night Vale? Seeing isn’t proof of existence.

/=\=/=\ 

“The Night Vale Daily Journal today announced that due to the recent economic downturn, they will start running ads on the front page. Any business interested in running one of these Platinum Premium ads should contact editor Leanne Hart. Hart mentioned that they have also created a ‘Write Your Own News Story’ program for interested citizens. Because every writer has been laid off, the Daily Journal now needs these community contributions to supply Night Vale with important new and features.”

“And so continues the death of the newspapers,” Nils muses in the lab. It’s just her, Carlos, and C.C. since everyone else is out and about. Carlos would’ve been fine on his own, but his entire team seems to have decided Carlos should not have alone time during work hours. Usually it’s Rachelle or Stan with him, but today Nils and C.C. are keeping eyes on him today. Not that they ever come out and say it. There’s always some sort of excuse, and theirs is that they want to make sure he doesn’t hurt his still tender ankle by doing too much. “First selling two percent milk in kiosks, now ads on the front page. What a tragedy.”

Carlos snorts, amused by Nils, then alarmed as Cecil continues, “The first Platinum Premium ad runs next Monday and features the terrified face of an infant primate with a superimposed spoon that has been stone-sharpened to a rough point, and the tagline ‘Better use Tide’. Hart also said that last year’s explosion that decimated the Daily Journal’s distribution plant is still totally an accident and would like her insurance rep to call her back. Please: call her back.”

“ _Ay Dios mio_ ,” Carlos sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You can say that again boss,” C.C. huffs before he’s summoned over his walkie-talkie. With a nod in Nil's direction and a casual salute to Carlos , C.C. hurries away. With Cecil reporting nothing of note at the moment, Nils begins examining samples of the grass that changes color on a regular basis and Carlos begins organizing notes for Director Fury who couldn’t decipher the mess of writing for his life. Actually, his precise phrasing the one time Mendez sent his raw notes was, “I am a busy man, Agent, so do not waste my time by sending me this mess; send me something legible that looks like it was written by specialized agents, not over-paid five-year-olds.”

When Cecil begins talking about the dinosaurs again (Carlos would like to see the Director take legible notes and keep up with everything going on the same time) he jots down all relevant information:

-Portal stayed open longer than thought  
-@ least 1+ still out there  
-Cover yourself in low SPF sunscreen & hide in tiled bathroom ( **????** )  
-Several people went in portal; aged several thousand years ( **how????** ) in a few seconds  
-Psych & emotional damage not considered valid claims by med insurance

Carlos sighs as Cecil finishes the segment with, “We’ll update you as further details surface in our special ongoing and very special coverage of Pteranodon Attack-Gate. Are we safe from dinosaurs? No way.”

Then of course, C.C. calls him in for an important City Council meeting and everything implodes, just a little bit.

/=\=/=\ 

The town is surprisingly deserted as Carlos runs to the meeting, ignoring his viciously protesting ankle. He assumes everyone's at the City Council meeting C.C. radioed in about, since he and the other scientists are tracing back some potentially dangerous reading to their source. At the doors of the town hall, he gathers his breath and slips in.

The deceptively massive hall is filled with the low thrum of chattering voices, and the City Council presides over it all, inscrutable and unknowable. He even manages to pick out several familiar faces, including Old Woman Josie who’s flanked by two massive beings of a species Mendez doesn’t think he can (or wants to) identify. Looking at them brings about thoughts of eldritch horrors.

He listens with drawing horror as all of the people agree with the motion of removing the door in front of Radon Canyon. The one that contains the _potentially lehtal radiation_ , though if Cecil is any indication, most Night Valians seem to have some sort of natural immunity to radiation (and that makes Carlos think of Bruce Banner who could’ve used some protection from radiation). Old Woman Josie, when it’s her turn to speak, merely clicks her tongue and mutters, “That old door. Oooh, that door! Someone’s gonna get some kind of lead poisoning!” There’s only a few people between him and the microphone when his walkie-talkie chirps.

“What?” he demands, too stressed to bother with pleasantries.

“We think there’s another portal that’s about to open,” Michael says bluntly, voice in strained control.

“When?”

“We don’t know. No time to get your ass over here like the present though Mr. Specialist.”

“There is no time,” he agrees. Mendez releases the button and adds, “No more time,” before running out of the hall to the location C.C. directs him to over the walkie-talkie.

And of course, the one person who isn’t there is the one who knows exactly what happened. Carlos seriously needs to ask Cecil how he manages that one day. For now, though, Carlos needs to help his team and save the town.

/=\=/=\ 

"I am so done with this town," Stan hisses, running a tired hand through his dust-coated hair. "There is no other assignment in SHIELD that can have you dealing with massive prehistoric insects."

Nils shudders from her slumped over position on her desk. "And the spiders," she mumbles almost inaudibly into her arms. "The damned car-sized spiders."

Rachelle glowers weakly at the other woman. "I'm trying to forget it, thanks." Nils makes an ambiguous hand gesture at Rachelle in retort; Cass gives them both long-suffering looks and the male scientists say nothing. Even the security team is silent in their exhaustion as Carlos and Stan bandage up any wounds. They simply listen to the two women wearily bicker before Cass disappears upstairs into her room. Carlos assumes she'll stay up there the rest of the night (and he wouldn’t blame her), but she comes back down, carrying a glass bottle of… “Vodka,” Carlos says flatly. “Really.”

It’s not a question but she responds, “Really. We just saved this town from an invasion of monstrous prehistoric insects. I think we’ve earned a drink.”

Carlos doesn’t really protest because he kind of agrees with her, and he doesn't even like drinking. It’s only by some miracle and impeccable SHIELD training that no one was killed. “This blows,” Stan grumbles. “We just saved an entire town, and all we get is a shot of vodka.”

“I’m gonna make that a t-shirt,” Rachelle decides as she helps Cass find glasses for all of them.

“What?” Dave asks, amused.

“I’m gonna make all of us t-shirts that say ‘I just saved the whole town, and all I got was a shot of vodka’,” Rachelle says, setting the glasses down as Cass begins pouring generous shots out for everyone.

“You’re serious,” Dave realizes, a grin splitting his face.

“Yeah,” Rachelle drawls. “Problem?”

“Only if I can’t help.”

Rachelle and Dave laugh as Carlos and C.C. fix them with firm glares. “You two are not allowed to work together,” C.C. says, voice calm and authoritative.

“And you're not allowed to have minions,” Carlos adds to Rachelle. “You don’t need enablers.”

“What does that make me and Cass?” Nils questions since Cass is too busy dealing out shots.

“Allies,” Carlos retorts. “You two can think independently. _He_ is so doe-eyed over her, he wouldn’t think straight.”

Dave freezes, pinning Carlos with a horrified stare; Rachelle glowers at him. “You scientists are ten types of crazy,” C.C. mutters with a shake of his head.

“If us scientists are ten types of crazy, Night Vale is ten thousand types, most of which were previously unknown,” Dave retorts.

Before Carlos can put his two cents in, someone shoves a glass of vodka under his nose. When he accepts it, Cass settles at her seat and gives him a pointed look. Oh, yes, give him the job of making a toast. He raises his glass and everyone looks at him, immediately falling silent, and isn’t that nice?

“To us for surviving the craziest day any of us have ever had,” Carlos says. “And to Night Vale for giving us all the blackmail material we’ll ever need to deal with Fury and Hill.”

After much clinking of glass, everybody downs their shot, pulling faces at the taste; they all give Carlos looks that are varying degrees of shocked and impressed when he downs his shot without so much as a blink.

“Natasha,” he says by way of explanation.

“You and Natasha used to go out drinking,” C.C. says, and Carlos scowls at him.

“It wasn’t so much for drinking as to bitch about shit missions. And for language lessons. She taught me Russian. It all became much more tolerable when we drank.”

“I’m calling BS,” Stan says, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at Carlos thoughtfully. “You do _not_ speak Russian.”

Carlos smiles faintly. “Фактически, да я,” he pauses, then amends, “А также, он достаточно в любом случае.”

His team’s slack-jawed silence is amusing, and it allows him to listen to and scribble down a quick note as Cecil’s voice is now abruptly audible. “More breaking news on the pteranodons. We humbly offer the following retractions from our previous reports: Secret Police are now reporting that the offending beasts were not pteranodons after all, but pterodactyls. Also, pteranodons aren’t even dinosaurs as this station previously stated--just winged reptiles that lived about 70 million years after pterodactyls. Finally, earlier we reported a death toll of zero when, in fact, the number is closer to 38. We regret these errors.”

“You are ridiculous,” Nils says decisively. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Carlos shrugs with a smile toying at the edge of his lips. “I’ve been called worse.”

His team gives him a despairing look, but he just smiles and turns the volume up on the radio.

/=\=/=\ 

“They sure do take their sports seriously. And their library books,” Stan observes in reference to the last segment.

Carlos nods. “It’s impressive. Playing football with one hand while in advanced stages of cerebral palsy.”

“And how fortunate to have been healed from such injuries from a what-should-be-lethal lightning strike.”

“It seems Mr. Sandero is quite fortunate to have survived.”

Stan hums, shooting Carlos a considering look. “What?”

“Do you think it’s strange,” the other man says at last, “That Cecil has it in so much for Desert Bluffs?”

Carlos shrugs. “Not especially. Small town rivalries and whatnot.”

Stan shakes his head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I grew up in a town smaller than this one. Even as bad it was there, it’s nothing like this.”

“Night Vale’s a strange town by anyone’s standards. Why wouldn’t their town rivalries be as strange?” Carlos suggests, body curled over his notes, pointedly ignoring Adrian’s incredulous look.

“Are you telling me that you find nothing about Night Vale’s loathing of Desert Bluffs is abnormal?” Stan asks, disbelief filling his voice.

Carlos glances up, fixing the other scientist with a look. “Of course I’m not. Like we said before, this entire town is ten thousand kinds of crazy; I find everything that happens here abnormal. That includes the relationship between Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. But you know what we don’t have? Anything, not even a hypothesis as to why Night Vale hates Desert Bluffs so much. And until we find the reason why, we can’t assume anything.”

Stan thins his lips and nods.

In a gentler voice, Carlos adds, “Look, get together with the team, see what you can find. I’ll ask around because honestly? I think you’re right. There is some _serious_ bad blood between Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. And I want to find out why.”

And Stan perks up slightly because he’s the type of person who loves to unravel a mystery, loves to find the truth. And so is the rest of the team for that matter.

Fury, you sneaky, clever _hijo de puta_.

/=\=/=\ 

The evening is winding down as everyone wanders into the lab, tired as usual but in good spirits. Not even Cecil’s editorial is enough to freak Carlos' team out, he notes with pride. They mostly shrug it off with laughs and comments of, “God, remind me not to get an apartment here,” and “imagine that happening in SHIELD barracks,” and, “what would happen to other SHIELD agents here?”

They’re doing good. They’re doing better than good. They’re _thriving_ on the mysteries that are inherent to Night Vale, despite the exhaustion and irritation with the town when something flagrantly breaks every rule science ever developed.

C.C. and Carlos groan when the Hooded Figure in the radio station emits familiar static sounds. At everyone’s expectant looks, C.C. explained, “We ran into one of those things the first day we were here.”

“I still don’t know how they emit such a sound,” Carlos says the same moment Dave realizes, “So _that’s_ why you were so insistent about us avoiding those things.”

The abrupt switch from deafening static to gentle string music and a solemn woman’s voice is jarring. The song itself is also pretty in a sad, sort of sweet way, and the transition from fading string music to Cecil’s deep timbre is almost unnoticable. Especially when it’s to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word from Secret Police that the rip in space-time that opened at last night’s PTA meeting has been sealed at last. The final missing pterodactyl has been returned to its own timeline in either prehistoric or alternate-universe Night Vale.”

And of course, the possibility of an alternate-universe Night Vale is thrown out there. Because that’s _really_ what Carlos wants to think about. And really, he wants to think less and less about the last pterodactyl in general as the report goes on. _Soft meat crowns?_ Not something that needs to be in his head just before he’s going to bed because his subconscious mind has made a shitty habit of picking up the absolute worst things to throw back in his face when he's asleep. So Carlos, and it seems most of the team, distract themselves until Cecil says, “And listeners, Night Vale is an ancient place, full of history and secrets--as we were reminded today. But it is also a place of the present moment, full of life and of us.

“If you can hear my voice speaking live, then you know: we are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that?”

Carlos smiles quietly as he regards his team, the troubles they’ve endured not only in Night Vale but in the service of SHIELD and the struggles of life in general. He thinks about his family, and how far he’s come and how far he’ll go. He thinks about his and his team’s possible future in Night Vale.

He even thinks about Cecil, and a line from the weather that clings to his brain: _Then you’re close enough to lose. Close to the point where you know that your mind, it cannot choose. Close enough to lose, close enough to lose your heart._

“Goodnight, listeners, goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if the Russian is way off, I don't speak the language and used an online translator. It's supposed to mean, "Actually, I do. Well, good enough in any case." Apologies if it's butchered. TTnTT
> 
> Ok, so I'm done editing these chapters and will be posting new ones soon! I'm so happy to be working on this again. :D


End file.
